Within the chalet's loft-style bedroom, she wakes—most unexpectedly—to the sound of his voice, clear in its tone, but her sleepy brain unable to understand its meaning. He is holding her hand, sitting tentatively on the edge of the mattress. He is still in his warm coat.
She says nothing in response, only looks—only feels her hand being cradled in his.
She takes no action—unusual for her. Instead of gripping his hand in greeting she lets hers lay still, deeply contented that his can bear the weight of it, the touch of his skin against hers like an echo too long in returning back to her.
After a while he speaks, the sounds of his voice in the pre-dawn the precious soundtrack of every dream she can recall from the last twelve months. "There was a strong rumor Pyongyang International was to be shut down," he tells her, his pace slow, his tone quiet as he shared the news of his arrival . "I was able to get on with the last flight, sooner than I had expected. But not," he added, "my luggage." His eyes shot over toward a single carry-on bag he had dropped just outside the room's door—hers did not leave his.
"I will not complain," she says, after simply smiling her response for a long time, thinking of the closet-full of shirts in every color this room held. He adjusts her comforter to cover her foot and ankle. She is tempted to slide them out into the open again, if only to have the pleasure of his tending to her repeated.
She finally turns her hand over in his, her two first fingers gliding along his wrist, up and just under is sleeve cuff. His pulse is there, though she doesn't press hard enough to feel its beat. The highway to his heart.
"I saw something downstairs," he says, slowly, deliberately, and his eyebrow asks for clarification. He has found the viola. He does not mention that he spied it in the scant seconds it took him to rush through the ground level-just long enough to determine if she were situated there, or up in the bed.
"You are a naughty child," she chides him, still drowsily, never looking away from his face, her own expression so happy her face might break open. "You have spoiled your surprise."
"You are my surprise," he counters, his own smile dreamily slow as well, "ever since you descended. Always, my surprise." He rolls a thumb across her knuckles.
"You can try your sweet words on me all you want, Ri Jeong-Hyeok," she tells him, "you forget, I am a sophisticated A-Number 1 cut-your-throat businesswoman," she clutches more tightly at his hand as she lets her moxie fall away, dismisses the steel she could summon into her eyes, "I will keep no secrets from you so long as you are here, truly here, and I am not just dreaming my heart's truest wish."
"I am here," he says, his eyes snapping away from hers for a moment as he takes a chest-expanding sigh of Swiss air, the loft bedroom a touch chilly as the timered thermostat has not yet roused to raise the temperature for daytime hours.
"Are you well," she asks, beginning their liturgy, more awake but still not moving from the pillows.
He gives a slight nod and slowly blinks. "I am well."
"Are you hurt?"
"I am not hurt."
"And are you happy?" Even as she asks it, she feels something like endorphins surge within herself.
"I've come home," he says. "I am most happy."